Soldier On
by Mrs Dizzy
Summary: A day in the life of John after Sherlock's death. John/Molly friendship. ONESHOT.


_I was listening to The Temper Trap and got inspired. It's sort of "A day in the life of John after Sherlock's death" story with a bit of John/Molly friendship thrown in. Originally posted on my tumblr page - ditsypersephone. This piece could be seen as set in the same universe as my other oneshot posted here - "Her Empty House"._

_Thank you for reading!_

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**Soldier On**

John Hamish Watson woke up and decided that it was time to get on with life.

Stumbling out of bed, he shuffled over to the bathroom, determined to be out of the flat before noon. Looking at the bathroom mirror, he laughed at his reflection. Fuck, when had he become _this_ old bugger? He desperately needed a shave, a shower and a good strong cup of tea. He could do with a fry-up as well.

He made it through breakfast, drinking the last of his tea, when the determination that had gotten him this far wavered. London looked bleak outside the window and the morning news said that it could rain later.

He needed to do some shopping though. He'd cooked the last items of food in the flat. He didn't even have any cup-a-soup left. And he needed more milk. Tea wasn't tea without milk.

He was dressed for the day and it wouldn't take him more than fifteen minutes to go to the shop down the street to get the basics. Before he could change his mind, John stood up to get his wallet and jacket and literally ran out of the flat.

It was windy outside and he could smell the promise of rain in the air. He briskly walked down the street to the shop, mentally composing a list of things he needed. More loo roll being high on that list. But when he got there, he simply walked past, wondering why he did and not caring at all.

It felt too good to be up and about and he knew that if he stopped now, he'd only end up spending the whole day in the flat again. There was only so much daytime telly that was good for the soul. And he'd reached his quota for two lifetimes.

He walked and walked and walked and when he came to a bus stop, hopped on the next bus, relieved that he still had enough credit on his oyster card.

The bus was crowded with morning commuters and he had to stand in the crush. He got off when most people did and almost followed one inside an office building. He caught himself just in time and changed direction.

He'd been spending so much time alone recently that he'd forgotten how busy the outside world could be. How busy _London_ could be and how comforting _that_ could be.

He made a game of it, walking down the street until he arrived at an intersection. If the other street name was alphabetically further than the one he was on, he went that way, if not he stayed on the one he was.

Only when he realized that he was hungry did he stop and take proper notice of his surroundings.

John Hamish Watson did not believe in higher powers or fate or any of that nonsense. But here he was, just around the corner of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

He thought he should feel pain or anger or sadness or a range of these emotions but what he felt was curiosity. He hadn't been here since the suicide, not having any real reason to be.

He went over to where he'd stood on that day, looking up just as he had then. He thought it would be traumatic for him to be here but all he could think of was how high up the roof was. Only a miracle could've saved him and John certainly didn't believe in miracles any more.

"John?" he heard a familiar voice call and he turned to see Molly Hooper crossing the street. There was a mixture of surprise and concern on her face and he felt it oddly comforting.

"Molly," he greeted the woman with a smile.

He caught her briefly glancing up at the roof as she approached him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was out for a walk…"

"A bit nippy for a walk, isn't it?" she smiled, huddling inside her coat.

"At least it's not raining."

"Yeah," she giggled and it struck him how pretty she was.

"Have you eaten?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

She gestured towards the hospital, "I was just popping out to get some lunch but…um…if you are hungry…I mean, if you don't mind…um…"

"Yeah. Yeah, that would be lovely." Lunch with Molly seemed like the best idea in the world at the moment.

"Where did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking of grabbing a soup and a sandwich but we could…"

"Soup and sandwich sounds perfect. There's this place nearby…" He used to go there when Sherlock was holed up in the lab with experiments.

"Uh, yeah. The lunch rush will be over so we might get a table to sit and chat."

He smiled, "I'd like that."

They walked there in silence, giving John time to think. He hadn't seen Molly since the funeral, remembering that she'd looked pale and hadn't spoken much that day. She'd given him a hug goodbye, saying something like "It'll all be okay, John. You'll see." But he'd been too caught up with his own turmoil to be concerned for her.

They reached the small sandwich shop, ordered and found a small table. Sipping their water, while waiting for their soup to be served, neither seemed to know how to break the silence that had descended upon them.

John made an effort, "So, how have you been?"

"Busy. People keep dying." Molly went beet red at that, covering her mouth with her hand.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…I didn't…that was…" she spluttered but John laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

"That wasn't funny, John. That was really in bad taste," she admonished and apologized.

"But that's life, innit?" he laughed even more.

She smiled ruefully, "I guess."

"So how have _you_ been?"

That sobered him, "Can we pretend that everything's been sunshine and rainbows?"

"John…" she reached out to touch his hand on the table. He turned his so he was holding hers. Such small hands.

"I'm moving on. It's time to move on," he squeezed her hand and he felt an answering pressure from hers. She really had delicate hands.

Thankfully, the food arrived and prevented the moment to fall into more awkwardness.

"I was thinking of volunteering," he said after they'd eaten most of their food.

Her face brightened with interest, "What for?"

"_Médecins Sans Frontières_." He said it partly to diffuse the vulnerability he'd revealed earlier. It was something that had been suggested to him by Harry months ago.

_"He's dead, John. He's dead and there's nothing you can do about it. But you're not dead and there's millions of things _you_ could do," she'd said to him, sober for a year, clear-headed and for once not the Watson sibling in trouble._

_"Like what?" he'd snarled, angry at her words, at her intrusion, at knowing she was right but not wanting to admit it._

_"I don't know. You're a doctor. You could go volunteer. The Red Cross, Doctors Without Borders, a community program…something, anything. You have a good heart, John, and you're letting it fester with heartbreak."_

"I think they would be lucky to have you," Molly said to him, smiling her brightest smile. God, she really was lovely. Sherlock had been a fool.

She told him about a uni friend of hers who was working at the organization, asking him if he would like to have contact details. He said yes and their conversation somehow segued into talking about their medical training. They told each other pranks they'd pulled, peculiar professors and first patients.

"After my first week in A&E, I knew I was never cut out to be a proper doctor," Molly said, "I'm just not very good with people."

John shook his head, "That's not true. I knew someone who was really _not good_ with people."

"Sometimes, I think he's…was afraid to be human," she sadly said

"But he was. More human than most people gave him credit for." And John knew that this was an absolute truth.

In the end, Sherlock had been just a man, who'd felt and hurt just as deeply as everyone else. And he wished every single day that he could've done something, anything to keep him from jumping off of that roof.

Molly looked at him funny, "John…I…I'm sorry…but…I need to get back."

He could swear that she wanted to say something else, something more but when he glanced at his watch, he noticed that they'd been in here for nearly two hours.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you for so long."

She hastily shook her head, standing up to put her coat on. John jumped up to help her.

"It's fine, it's fine. It's not like my patients…yeah, no, it's fine," she flustered, bumping into the table as she tried to get her arms into the coat he was holding up for her. She reminded him of a nervous sparrow and on an impulse hugged her when she finally had her coat on and buttoned.

"Everything will be alright. You'll see," he whispered to her.

"Promise?" she whispered back.

He released her and smiled, knowing he would do his best to deliver on that promise. It really was time to move on.

He walked her back to Barts. She told him that she'd email him those details of her friend and he said something about grabbing a drink some time soon. She looked pleasantly surprised when he asked her if she still had the same mobile number and then called her, to make sure it was so.

"It was really good to see you, John."

And it had been really good to see her.

"Listen, he probably never thanked you for everything you've done for him. And well, he can't anymore…"

"You don't have to apologize for him. It's fine…it's…"

"No, Molly. It isn't. He should've been better to you. You were his friend too and he hurt you and that's just not on. And maybe I should've…"

She reached out to touch him again. "John, you're not his keeper. And if there was anyone Sherlock should've thanked it should've been you. You were good to him and you…he…you were good for him."

There were tears in Molly's eyes and since John never could handle crying women, he hugged her again.

"He never deserved us, did he?" he joked and was glad it made her chuckle. He released her from the hug and she wiped away the moisture on her cheek.

"Thank you for lunch, John."

"No, thank you."

They said their goodbyes again and he watched her disappear into the building. With one last look at the roof, John headed off in the direction of home.

He was really glad he'd gotten out of bed today.

And then the skies opened and it rained.

As he dashed towards the nearest tube station, he reminded himself that he really needed to get more loo roll.


End file.
